


Rin'ne

by altairattorney



Series: I wish there was another way [2]
Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Immortal Severance Ending, Spoilers, Suicide, messed up fix-it which is messed up because canon IS MESSED UP, meta ramblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 04:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20483192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairattorney/pseuds/altairattorney
Summary: “My lord,” he says, as if in prayer. “It's been a long time.”





	Rin'ne

After the burial, time does not stop passing.

It takes Wolf by surprise, with the first rays of a sun risen despite everything. Though he cannot perceive it, its golden warmth still  pointlessly  falls on his skin. The cold morning opens its curtains on him, as he thought, for a brief moment, it never would again.

That mild stupor is the only thing he manages to feel for a very long time.

The seasons move on without him. He follows them, aimless. He is an afterthought of nature, and he knows now, beyond doubt, that he has always been.

For the  remainder  of the winter, with the ground still too frozen to break through, he lies down with the earth and the seeds . He rejects sleep, food and water, unless they come to him themselves. He does not want; he does not fight back when Emma force-feeds him.

Why she still bothers, he does not try to understand. He lets it happen, like the seasons.

* * *

He awakens again halfway through the next spring. Nature gives birth in newfound peace, in a land where everything and nothing changes.  The dawn spits him out with the rest of existence; the way he rises to his feet, still battered, is no more than the instinct of a plant .

He drifts to the temple grounds, in search of a thawing spot. Mere steps behind him, still vivid, the ghost of a soft mound from not so long ago.

In the only way he knows how, Wolf does what he must. He lays his blades to rest into the soil, and finally starts carving.

Far into the summer, with the return of his need for food and shelter, Wolf notices the flames.

The first timid sparks solidify into longer caresses. They reach out of the wood  languidly , each time for a moment longer. Like a wax seal they drip on his skin, and his fingers, threatened, carve their way back into the sculpture.

It takes Wolf time to recognize their influence. Yet, once it does, it stands out at the pace of his growing carving skills.

There is a veil of sinister light upon the Buddhas. Each new statue lets it shine through more.  In some winter nights that year, he mistakes them for bonfires, alight with regret and insomnia .

Wolf thinks of his predecessor every time, wondering if his flames were quite as torturous .

It isn't long before the fire also touches his dreams. Soon enough – too soon – he starts remembering them far into the morning.

Throughout the little sleep he can get, the floorboards sneak around him and nail his body to the ground. What he cannot think of anymore, he  is forced  to witness again, victim and destroyer at the same time.

He falls back into the memory, limbs made of flowing water. It always begins with the beast; its eyes of coal stare back at him, with his own gaze.

He watches and endures the pointless dance with fate, one  maybe  he should have run from – hit – hit – spin – jump – dig into flesh .

He moves with grace, like immortals of long ago in an  otherworldly  palace. But his dreams tell the truth. He is, at once, the dancer and the blaze; the demon, they both are. Or they will be.

He awakens in a cold sweat, but his flesh burns.  He finds his hand reaching for an object on his chest – a trace of something unnamed, fleeting, never even there .

Wolf tries to accept it. After all, there is no other path ahead.

* * *

In a month too remote to keep the count, he finds out the sake does him no more good.

It was the only comfort he had left, for the most part, as the space in the temple filled up and Emma's visits became rare. Whenever the Ministry called her for too long, she made up for it with a jar. A comfortable habit until now.

The burning in his throat rivals that of his hand, especially when idle. It is something – it used to be, at least.

Even more so, nothing else remained to cloud his mind from the memories.

That awareness fills the air between them, thicker than dust. It is no secret. Too many times Emma has found him crying, convulsing between sleep and wake – if conscious or not, not even he can say. His screams poisoned the air of dawn, too loud to conceal, and she lowered her head.

In the end, as more of them returned, her herbs could only work for so long. In vain, he had hoped the alcohol would never follow.

“I have nothing else for you today,” she announces, throwing a change of clean rags upon the floor. “My apologies. The Ministry is seizing more and more of the refineries. Always more war, more supplies for their army...”

“I see,” his ragged voice replies, somewhat disappointed. “It... doesn't seem to help much, anyway.”

Emma walks to sit at his side, and reaches out to hold his arm. In the worst mornings, she soothes the ache of his hand with special compresses. Her gaze, ever attentive, darkens as soon as she notices the trembling of his hand.

“This is new,” she comments, with unusual bitterness. “Say, Wolf, how much have you been drinking? And, whatever it is, where do you get it from?”

The atmosphere grows tense, way faster than he is comfortable with. The compromises have been much worse than any a former shinobi would ever elect to make. But the danger and mistrust is the same all over Ashina, and in the end – when it comes to him – what difference does it make?

“The... sellers... you know the type,” he mutters, glossing over the first question on purpose. “Not my first choice, I would say. But lately... while it lasted... it was the only way to sleep at all.”

She turns his face  sharply , forcing him to meet her gaze. The mild anger cannot conceal the grief – a look he has failed to forget, from long ago.

The weight of recalling it hits him like a full-face slap, paralyzing his vocal cords.

“Wolf,” she says. “You are a long-time friend, and I do not question your choices. Not even the drinking. But to live like this... to get this far... we have been over this so many times. I understand, I promise I do. But – ”

“Do you?”

Emma jumps, taken aback by the violence of his outburst.

Wolf rises to his feet, his breath flowing out of his lungs like fire. He knows how they have danced around the topic, so long, so hopeless. He is going to end it.

She wants him to rise over his condition. Once, he thinks, she may have believed him capable of that. How is it possible that she still does? Does she know this little of uselessness, and the way of the Buddha?

His mind bends under the weight of how wrong she is, how wrong he knows she can be. Then, with a violent, unfamiliar flare in his stomach, he finds he loathes her.

“It is no use, and it never was,” Wolf growls, his voice  increasingly  hostile. “This is what awaits me now. I... I can't do anything to make it better. I can't fight. I won't fight it. I don't need your understanding, nor do I need a sliver of your pity. If that is all you have to offer, then, leave me alone! Now!”

Then, his sight is overcome by a wave of color, and the sharp sound of metal. An age-old instinct tells him to defend.

Emma stands, ready. She looks taller than him for a moment.

A bare inch of her blade, blinding in the dim temple, blinks from the sheath. Scarier still, her narrowed eyes pierce him.

“You are not the person I knew you to be,” she says, despising him with every syllable. “If you refuse to remember, or if you  simply  lost yourself long ago, I cannot tell. But don't forget this; what I told you once stands true today. I will not hesitate – ”

– and right there, clinging to Wolf's weakened limbs, a revelation of the past occurs.  All of  a sudden they share a perfumed room, warmer than an embrace. _I would kill a demon_ , she claims, with a playful glare. _ I will not hesitate_ –

“ – shinobi of the Divine Heir, or whatever of him  is left  in you.”

Those words are enough to bend Wolf on his knees.

In feverish motion, his right hand grabs at his stump. A revelation takes him, as the weight of his karma descends on him like snow. Light, icy, paralyzing.

A river of fire springs from under his hand. One he saw take form with his own eyes, years before, from the remains of a once friendly man. For a moment, they are one - his arm reborn, his body aflame.

That is what he is going to become. It is where his path seems to  be headed , at least. But the snow still seeps through, tainting his blood, and the dream of his future mingles with his past.

Training, honor, deceit, transcendence. A fight he brought all the way to the end, to a victory that cost him everything.

And then, in a young, forgotten voice that is not quite his, a long lost part of him asks the question.

_What was it all for?_

Slowly  , Wolf returns to reality. His chest splits apart in pain when he finds that his vision, for the first time in years,  is blurred .

“I... won't say any more,” he stutters, defeated. “You have nothing to do with this. For my rude words, I ask forgiveness, Emma. I will think about what you said. But for now... please... leave me alone for a time.”

As her blade slips back into place, he sees renewed tranquility in her stern, deep eyes. She kneels at his side, touching his shoulder with a warm hand of her own.

“If nothing else, this is the most I have heard you speak in a long while,” she says, her tone returning to a certain softness. “It is a bit reassuring. I do know that, in yourself, you can still find what is right... and from you, Wolf, I expect to see it through.”

He concedes her a wordless nod, and loses himself in thought. Distant, he hears her footsteps return towards the entrance.

“Until then, don't wallow in despair. If you are patient, I will be back soon enough. With something extra, too, if I can.”

She walks away in the Ashina winter, leaving him alone with his idols. He feels the stare of the Buddha, fixated on him from every corner of his forsaken home.

By the time he can answer, Emma is long gone.

“I promise,” he says. “Regardless, it does not matter anymore. I...”

What  is left  of the demon  barely  veils his eyes.  Just  underneath, his voice melts in a softness he had thought to be forever lost.

“I will do what must  be done .”

* * *

Beyond what remains of a long-forgotten passage, the field glows under the moonlight in the same way as ever .

Of all the details blurred by time and suffering, its whiteness is the one Wolf never lost. He has relived it so many times over, through nightmares, screams, sleepwalking.

The same holds true for the burial site. Despite the years, and the now heavy weapon in his grasp, his feet walk to the headstone as if they had never left.

His knees fall the same way, too, with their ever familiar weight of lead.

“My lord,” he says, as if in prayer. “It's been a long time.”

With care, he cleans the dirt off the abandoned tomb, and lights fresh incense at the foot of the stone. When the scent of sakura mingles with the evening breeze, Wolf lowers his head, bent by the heavy fog in his eyes.

He learns how to cry, tear after tear, and lets regret flow free with each one.

“Since the moment we parted, lord Kuro, I have tried to forget,” he confesses, as soon as he finds his voice again. “I know it was wrong of me to do so. Not only because of how much it could have cost, but  mostly  because, in my heart, I knew full well I could never have.”

He stops to collect his ideas, as careful fingers trace the hilt of Kusabimaru. So much he thought to have left behind, so wrong he was. People rarely change – and he, on his own, was never capable of it.

Unlike his master, he is not extraordinary in any way.

“I believe  I lost sight of the truth the moment you departed,” he admits. “I take the blame for both things. Deep down, however, I never could erase... your wish, and what you asked of me.”

The solitary murmur of the silvergrass is not enough to muffle the rush of memories.  A sweet voice echoes around his ears, with the crystalline laugh that always accompanied it . He lets it fall upon him in a cascade, like the song of a hundred wind chimes.

“I remember now,” Wolf says, his voice cracking. “It has come back to me, with the memory of you. What you wanted the most was to protect. You cared for people so, you would sooner give your life than taint theirs with a curse. You went through so much...  just  to  be lost  to that wish.”

Somewhat distracted, but not without reverence, he unsheathes Kusabimaru. The dirt of years falls off the blade, letting its metal glisten with the fierceness of the moon.

His gesture mirrors the one of long ago. For a moment, Wolf is overcome by nausea.

“Your devotion was so strong,” he continues, using the thought to steady himself again. “Though it was supposed to be my role... it was you who protected me, all along. Even if I didn't matter, even if I never was important. After all... the only wish I truly ever had... was to help you fulfill yours.”

The ghost of Kuro's voice rings in his head,  painfully  taking him by surprise. He guesses he did, one way or the other. It was what his master had wanted.  Maybe , after all that happened, the depth of his grief is still a monster on its own.

“The truth is, as we both know, I failed you time and time again. For how I failed you here... at the very end... I doubt I will ever make amends, in any lifetime.  Surely  there had to be another way.  Surely  your life could have  been spared .”

He lifts his sword,  tentatively . Indelible, the image of small fingers closed around a blade haunts him. He falls further into anguish.

“You weren't even alive anymore when I failed you again. I almost accepted it, my fate to become what you would have hated most. And then... in my selfishness, I forgot to do what must  be done  to achieve your wish.”

Wolf's grip around the hilt tightens. Though his strength may have waned, the art of carving preserved some of it. The shape of his sword, despite its bitter reminders, does bring him at least a bit of comfort.

“Your wishes are all that at ever mattered to me,” he says, growing stronger with an old finality and warmth. “This is why I have come to do what I must... before I forget what you asked of me, your words, your voice. Before I forget all about you.”

With a sudden jolt, he raises Kusabimaru to the skies, and for a moment – of false glory, or simple resolve – he lets it reflect the silvery hue of the night .

Then, with humility, he guides the blade to point to himself.

Wolf knows for certain now. It is what he will do, and what he should have done long ago.

In that, at least, he is fair to himself. The horror that paralyzed him back then, keeping him from the act, had nothing to do with fear for his own life.

“My lord, this is my only prayer,” he recites, closing his eyes. “When my next life comes, and yours... I pray for us to meet again, in any form, in any way. Unworthy as I may be, I need to make amends for how I have failed. I need to see you again. I... I need to thank you, for all you gifted me.”

A swift sound tears the night apart. The grave remains forever silent.

* * *

The moon shines bright over the Moon-view tower. Equal to itself over a million cycles, its splendor graces the opening in the wall.

Just  out of its reach, the shinobi kneels before his lord, and tucks a protective charm back into his chest. There it is going to stay – where it  was placed , long ago, over the blossoming of a secret heartbeat.

Wolf does not know how an amulet kept him going so far, or which enchantments lie under its skin. What he does know is, the long night of his imprisonment  was spent  holding it close. That much is enough.

He is bound to his duties, after all; some truths are not his own to uncover. As long as his master shows the way, standing before him in his knowing light, he can walk on.

But as he leaves, to rejoin the shadows, he  is followed by  apprehensive eyes until he is in sight. And in the depths of Kuro's memory, a loving whisper still hangs between them –

_may this help you fare better, next time._

**Author's Note:**

> That ending is fucked up and mister Miyazaki should be ashamed. Anyways - immediate suicide is the only way it could have been better in my opinion, and I used this chance to both explore the idea of future suicide in order to prevent demonification/using NG+ as a meta possibility of getting a second chance.
> 
> I read a lot about Buddhism and its core principles and, while this story does not follow them directly, the concept was definitely built on what I learnt in these days. Rinne is the Japanese term for the saṃsāra, the cycle of existence and reincarnation that is the core concept of Buddhism and all living beings share. I tried to apply it to the game in both a cultural and symbolic sense.
> 
> So, here you are. Do with this story what you will.


End file.
